The Wind's Child

You're going to hate me later for this, I know.

One swift stroke buried the short blade into Richie's heart. Richie grunted as the pain hit, his eyes flaring in sudden acute awareness of what was happening.

"You bast-" he gasped, crumpling with death.

Methos smiled humorlessly and caught Richie as he fell forward, slowing his descent to the wooden floor.

Methos studied the limp form a moment before pulling out the dagger. Richie was far too thin, he realized. When was the last time the kid had eaten? he wondered. It had been nearly several days since he had last seen Richie. Had he been wandering the streets again? Methos recalled how he used to find Richie wandering after experiencing a nightmare.

Richie did not stir immediately. Methos watched in growing concern as several agonizing minutes passed. The death had been straightforward; even a young Immortal with less taken Quickenings than Richie should've recovered by now, Methos thought.

Finally, Richie revived. "I hate you," he muttered. Weakly, he rose to his feet. He then staggered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

Methos shrugged, automatically masking his true feelings. He followed Richie into the kitchen and grabbed a towel from a drawer to wipe the bloody dagger clean. He then retrieved his sword and began the process of cleaning that as well, his attention seemingly focused entirely on the care of his blade.

Richie drank deeply of his water, then picked up his rapier from where it had fallen. Staring at the older Immortal, he looked as if he was about to do something, then decided against it. He turned instead and walked up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Methos closed his eyes and swore silently. It was shaping up to be one of those days.

Fifteen minutes later, Richie emerged from his bedroom and jogged down the stairs. Methos had finished cleaning his sword and dagger and was just starting to get engrossed in a book when he heard Richie speak.

"Hey, did you meet Danielle at the bar yet?" he asked animatedly, seemingly refreshed and energetic.

Methos glanced up from the pages of his book to find Richie restlessly pacing. "Yes, I met her last night. She's a good singer."

Richie plopped down on the couch only to pop back up again. "She's going to go all the way, I just know it. I found her, you know. She was singing in a dive and I just knew she was in the wrong place and I had to get her out of there because it was a dive and no one really knew what kind of talent she had — "

"Okay, I got the picture, Richie," Methos interrupted. "Calm down. I like her. Are you seeing her?"

"No, no, I can't do that, not yet." Richie looked horrified. If it was possible, he spoke even faster, paced more. "I fall in love with the wrong women all the time and I have too much homework and not enough time and I can't — " He broke off suddenly. "I just can't."

Methos put down the book. Something was not right with Richie. "How's classes going?"

"Oh, okay," Richie told him as, finally, he stopped his pacing to drop onto a side chair. He did not look directly at Methos, and Methos knew that Richie was lying to him. But why? I thought we'd established that we trusted each other.

"I thought you were having problems with COBOL."

"Nah," Richie shrugged. "Piece of cake." He stood abruptly and picked up his motorcycle helmet from where he had laid it on the coffee table. "Gotta go. See ya, Methos."

It was almost a full minute before Methos realized that Richie had walked out into the cold January afternoon without his jacket — or his sword. Grabbing his own trench coat and sword, Methos started towards the door with Richie's belongings.

The door banged open before Methos could reach it, though. Richie grinned sheepishly as he walked in.

"Damn, it's cold out there," he commented as he took his jacket and sword from Methos. "Thanks."

The older Immortal flinched as Richie's frozen fingers brushed his. "What the hell were you thinking, Richie?"

"About what?" Richie asked. He slipped his leather jacket on over his cold-ravaged body before looking directly at Methos.

"Going out there without your sword and a jacket!" Methos exclaimed, hating the parental way he sounded. He stared at Richie, suddenly noticing something he had not previously.

Blue eyes. Dilated pupils. Rapid speech.

Dread slithered up Methos's spine like a python.

"Richie, are you on something?" Methos demanded.

"No, man, do you think I'm stupid?" Richie retorted, dropping eye contact. "I gotta go." He slammed the door behind him.

Guess that answers that question, old man. Now what are you going to do about it? a snide voice in Methos's head asked.

He was halfway through the door before reason kicked in and reminded him he had no idea where Richie had gone. Richie knew the city better than Methos and knew exactly where to disappear. Methos knew about some of the places Richie would go, based on the nights after their return from Paris that Methos had spent, tracking him down after one of Richie's nightmares. He had a strong suspicion, though, that Richie would avoid those places for that very fact.

With a frustrated sigh, Methos walked back into the apartment. Whatever drug Richie was on would wear off, and he would be back. Methos had better things to do than worry about an Immortal who did not want his help. He had done as much as he could for Richie, and the rest was up to Richie. With the ease of long practice, he ignored the voice of his conscience and smiled as he thought of the perfect distraction from his troubles.

<>Chapter Four
Monday

Lagniappe was quiet in the mid-afternoon lull between the lunch and dinner crowds. Grateful for the relative peace, Danielle took a seat at one of the tables near the kitchen and began the task of refilling the napkin dispensers. She was tired, and the place had been packed at lunch, causing her to be even wearier. She rubbed her neck and wished she was still sleeping, that today was Thursday, her lone day off from working the counter for Luc.

She exhaled heavily, knowing that she needed the job. Singing at Joe's paid better than Danielle had expected, but it still wasn't enough to cover all her expenses. She prayed for a generous dinner crowd; rent was coming due and she was short the money because she'd splurged on a new outfit to sing in later.

With any luck, the dinner crowd would be at a manageable level by nine o'clock, and that would give her an hour to change and be at Joe's for the ten o'clock performance.

She sincerely hoped that would be the case. She didn't want to be late tonight. Richie had stopped by during lunch and promised to show up later. He'd not eaten much, which Danielle found strange enough to comment upon, but he'd told her he was running late. She shrugged silently, figuring Richie had a class to go to, and stuffed a package of paper napkins into the last dispenser she had to fill .

She rose and began distributing the dispensers. She had just finished, and was starting to check to see if any of the table spices needed refilling when a blast of cold air and the door's jingling chime announced a new arrival.

Danielle looked up and her breath caught as she recognized the newcomer. She smiled widely, pressing a hand to her heart briefly before she smoothed out imagined wrinkles in her maroon-and-black uniform. She remembered to breathe and inhaled deeply.

"Welcome to Lagniappe, Adam," she greeted.

"Hello, Danielle. Mike at Joe's said I could find you here, but I didn't realize you work here too." He looked surprised.

She glanced down at the floor before meeting his gaze. "I'm not that great of a singer, and Luc is my family."

As if hearing his name, Luc came bustling out of the back room. "Danielle, did you get the door?" he asked her in Creole. Since she'd, he switched to English. "Ah, Adam, so good to see you again."

Adam smiled. "Good to see you, Luc." He shook hands with the chef before turning to Danielle. "You're a good singer. Don't sell yourself so short."

Danielle blushed.

With a smile, Luc declared in Creole, "He'll make a good husband, eh, Danielle? He knows how the quickest way to a woman's heart is to tell her she's beautiful and talented."

Danielle blushed even more. "Luc!" she squeaked. In Creole, she admonished, "I barely know him!"

"You're getting too old to not be married," Luc told her, continuing to speak in Creole. "Your mama had you by the time she was your age."

"And was she happy?" Danielle retorted.

"It's not good to be twenty-three and not married," Luc blustered.

He then turned their guest. In his Cajun-accented English, he asked, "Have ya eaten well today?" He didn't wait for a reply, but merely looked assessingly at Adam. "Hmpf," he pronounced. "Ya need food. Jambalaya today, for ya. Dawlin', sit. Luc will get."

Adam shook his head. "I'm not hungry, thanks." He held Luc's gaze, wanting to make certain Luc didn't leave the room until he accepted Adam's refusal.

Adam had understood what Luc had said to Danielle. He realized that Luc was like many old Cajuns, who believed that women should be married by the time she was twenty years old. The thought gave Adam pause, but not enough for him to reconsider seeing Danielle . Right now, Luc's approval would make it easier for Adam to convince Danielle to go out with him.

"Ya come by and don't want DA eat?" Luc grumbled, clearly disappointed, but he accepted the refusal. He eyed the other man speculatively. "Ah, ya came for boo here," he stated, indicating Danielle.

"I was hoping," Adam replied, "that she would be free this afternoon."

Immediately, Luc reached over and untied Danielle's apron. "Go with him."

"Luc, what about the dinner crowd?" Danielle protested. She thought of her lost wages, and was torn between the opportunity to spend time with Adam and the need for money.

"I will be fine," Luc told her. He went to the cash register and pulled out a trio of twenties. Then, tucking the money in her hand, he gently pushed her forward. "Have a good time." Then, before Danielle could protest further, he disappeared into the kitchen.

Adam smothered a chuckle. "Well," he announced. "Seems like the boss has spoken."

Danielle looked torn between exasperation over Luc's tactics and nervousness over Adam's invitation. He watched the silent battle over her emotions play across her face, loving the way she looked as she did so. Finally, her curiosity over Adam's arrival won. "So, where are we going?"

Adam stuck his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to touch her, suspecting that if he did so, she might become even more nervous. "Do you like movies?"

"Sure, what did you have in mind?"
 

Tuesday

Moonlight splashed through the blinds of Methos's bedroom window as he lay in bed. His heart pounded and he breathed rapidly as instinct shocked him from a deep, dreamless slumber. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. He inhaled slowly, trying to calm himself as the distinctive, primitive awareness flooded his senses.

An Immortal was near.

His hand automatically reached for the sword he kept beside the bed even as he strained to listen for any sound that would indicate if the Immortal was friend or foe. The door to his bedroom was cracked open so that he could hear movement from the lower floor.

After a few minutes, he heard a key turn in a lock, the door open, and something thud against an object.

"Ow, damn it!" a young man's voice cursed. "Stupid table."

Methos released the breath he had not realized he had been holding. Richie was home. Methos set aside the sword he'd been gripping and glanced at the clock on the bedside table.

Two-thirty a.m.

Methos heard another thud, this one not as heavy as the first, and a relieved sigh. He guessed Richie had walked into the coffee table where he normally dropped his helmet. Methos smiled to himself, aware that Richie's night vision wasn't always the greatest.

"Okay, so you go there," Richie said firmly. "Should've turned on the lights."

Silently, Methos debated the wisdom of confronting Richie. He heard Richie make his way up the stairs and pause at the top landing.

Methos sighed. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he made sure Richie was all right. He would never openly admit it, but he cared deeply about his friends. What had started out as an obligation to see that Richie kept his head had become something more. Methos saw a lot of potential in Richie, and he wanted to make sure that Richie realized it. He'd said as much to Richie on several occasions.

Without giving himself a second more to talk himself out of the action, Methos rose and stepped out into the hallway. "Thought it was you," he greeted.

Richie grinned. "Sorry to wake you, old man. I know you need your beauty sleep."

"Very funny. You okay? You were acting weird earlier." Methos strained to see in the semidarkness. From what he could make out of Richie's features, Richie seemed normal.

"When?" Richie asked blankly. Then, memory dawned. "Oh, you mean during practice. I don't know what got into me." Hurriedly, he added, "Like I said, sorry to wake you. I gotta get some sleep if I'm going to make class tomorrow." With that, he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving Methos to puzzle out his behavior before giving up and going to bed.

I'll just talk to him in the morning, Methos decided finally as he tried to get back to sleep.

Morning arrived, and Methos made his way downstairs, following the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. He found Richie standing in the middle of the living room, his hands on his hips, a perplexed expression on his face. Richie was wearing his leather jacket, along with his usual jeans and sneakers. His sword was balanced across the arms of a side chair, within reach.

Richie turned at the sound of Methos's footsteps on the wooden staircase. "Morning," he greeted.

Methos merely grunted and headed for a shot of liquid caffeine. Well aware that the older Immortal wasn't fully communicative until after he'd coffee, Richie withheld further comment until after he'd seen his friend work his way through most of a mug full.

"You haven't seen where I left my COBOL book?" Richie asked sheepishly. "I thought I put it on the table here yesterday, but now I can't find it."

Methos shook his head. "I don't remember seeing you with your books yesterday at all," he told him, taking a seat on the black futon in the living room. He paused, taking another sip of coffee. "Is everything going all right, Richie?"

The college student hesitated a moment too long before answering. "Yeah, it's okay, why?"

"You just seemed like you were high on something yesterday."

Richie assumed an insulted expression. "Give me a break, Methos. I just was, uh, running late for a, uh, meeting with a classmate." He cracked a smile. Gesturing emphatically as he spoke, he clarified, "You know, brunette, stacked out to here, and interested in me?"

Methos eyed Richie speculatively, seeing no trace of any drugs. His enthusiasm for a new girlfriend was entirely within his character, Methos reminded himself. If anything, Richie looked tired, as if he'd not slept well, and that could easily be attributed to the time he'd arrived home. Methos knew that Immortal healing wasn't perfect, and a lack of quality sleep was one of the few things that it couldn't overcome.

"I take it she was pretty willing last night?"

"Yeah, she was, uh, really great, man."

He didn't say any more about her, which Methos found telling, and he was tempted to pry further. He told himself that whoever the woman was, she would be the first one that Richie had expressed interest in since Paris. Naturally, Richie would be nervous about her. Something didn't ring wholly true though, and it nagged at him.

Richie lifted a newspaper from the coffee table and discovered his missing book. "Could've sworn I looked there," he muttered, half to himself.

He slid the book into his backpack, slung the bag over one shoulder, picked up his sword, and proceeded to cross the living space to the back door. "See you at two, Methos."

Well, he certainly seemed normal, Methos told himself. Maybe I was just seeing things. This new girlfriend might just mean that Richie has finally dealt with all the emotional baggage from Paris, and he's able to trust someone other than me or Joe again. He probably just wasn't ready to trust Danielle that intimately. He shrugged, and turned his thoughts to planning out his day.

Outside in the carport behind the apartment, Richie heaved a sigh of relief as he slid his sword into the scabbard on his motorcycle. For a moment, he thought for sure he'd been caught, but Methos had accepted the lie. Richie hadn't slept all night, and had in fact spent most of it wandering the city. He couldn't recall exactly where he 'd gone, but he knew what he'd bought.

Slipping his backpack off his shoulder, Richie dug into one of the inside pockets for the prescription bottle he knew he would find there. He eyed the pills inside a moment before selecting one and popping it into his mouth. Silently, he prayed that his body would metabolize the drug just long enough for him to stay awake to drive, and mounted his bike. He replaced the backpack on his shoulders, taking care to slip both straps on, and gunned the engine.

He reminded himself he was going to have to be more careful to hide his actions from Methos. Richie was sure his current mentor wouldn't be understanding if he found out what Richie was doing. After all, Methos had made it clear that Richie had expectations to fill, now that the Highlander wasn't in the picture and more than likely wouldn't be for a long time.

Just show up for sword practice everyday and keep your head, Richie told himself as he made his way through the city towards the university. His vision blurred abruptly, and he blinked hard, trying to focus. Was that a red light or a yellow one up ahead? No matter, he was going through it.

He breathed a relieved sigh when he didn't hear a squeal of brakes. He was having a hard time keeping his hands on the bike's controls; for some reason, they were trembling badly. He was going to throw up, he was certain of it, and barely made it to the side of the road before he did just that.

No more, Richie swore, and, after stopping for a soda to wash the foul taste out of his mouth, shakily continued on his journey to school.

Something told him he wasn't going to be successful in keeping that vow.

Chapter Five
Two weeks later
Tuesday

"Richie, what the hell is wrong with you?" Methos demanded angrily as he blocked yet another sloppy parry.

Sweating, weak with exhaustion, Richie didn't meet his mentor's eyes. "I'm not used to fighting with two weapons," he offered lamely.

Methos lowered his sword and stared disbelievingly at his student. They had been drilling with the main gauche Methos had acquired for Richie for months, though not as frequently as single-blade combat. "It may have been a few weeks, Richie, but this isn't much different than what we've been doing all along ."

"I'm just tired, okay?" Richie said defensively. "I had that test today, in case you forgot. I was up studying last night, or don't you remember?"

"I remember," Methos confirmed. "It's no excuse for being sloppy in your swordwork. A mistake like you just made could cost you your head."

Richie sighed.

"You don't always get to choose your fights, or have you forgotten that? You fight when you're tired, when it's pouring down rain, when all you wanted to do was have a nice, boring life for just the next couple of hours at least." Methos's voice was harsh. "Where is your mind, Richie? You were doing so well a few weeks ago, what happened?"

Richie shook his head. "I'm really tired, Methos. Can we just call it a day?" He paused. "For a guy who hates to fight, you sure as hell seem to like beating me up."

Methos narrowed his gaze. "Just because I don't like to fight doesn't mean that I don't need the practice — or that you can use it as an excuse not to practice. You have a lot of potential, Richie."

Richie rolled his eyes and walked out of the practice area. "So you keep telling me," he muttered under his breath. He picked up a towel that lay on a table just outside of the practice area and began wiping away the sweat on his face and neck.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," Richie lied.

Methos studied the younger man a moment, deciding finally that Richie did, indeed, look worn out. They had been sparring for nearly an hour now, and Methos knew he needed the break as well.

"All right," he relented. "We'll take it up again later."

Richie smiled gratefully at him and laid his weapons aside before heading off to take a shower.

Methos knew something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on the pulse of it just yet. It was true that Richie had been up late studying, but it seemed as though he'd been tired and irritable a lot lately. If he wasn't tired, he was talking animatedly, even worse than his normal gift of gab.

Methos exhaled heavily. This is what you get for caring. You start seeing problems where there are none, he chided himself as he set the practice area to rights. He frowned at the thought. Then again, if you feel there's something off-kilter somewhere, most likely there is.

He knew that there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing; he just couldn't place his finger on it. Was he getting too wrapped up in Danielle that he no longer saw clearly?

He shook his head. No, he told himself firmly. If I am, then it's time to stop, and concentrate on Richie.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead tiredly.

That test Richie had to study for was more history than either of you expected, he reminded himself. Though what use knowing precisely who invented the microprocessor would be is to someone who wants to write code is anyone's guess.

The sometime professor and student of things historical and archaic shook his head at the apparent impracticality of the trivia and went to take his own shower.

Joe's
Wednesday

Danielle sighed and looked critically at her reflection in the restroom mirror. She really needed a haircut, she told herself for the umpteenth time that week. If she waited any longer, her bangs wouldn't be bangs anymore. She picked up the bottle of hairspray and spritzed a little more of the sticky liquid onto her hair to force a stray tendril into place.

Oh, who are you trying to kid, Danielle? she asked herself. You haven't liked the way you look since you hit puberty.

She wondered if Adam was going to be there tonight. Would he think she looked good in the burgundy-hued crochet cardigan and jacquard brocade slim pants she wore? He'd not yet missed a performance, and in the days since his surprise visit to Lagniappe, they had spent a lot of time together. He definitely acted as though he was interested in her.

You know he's just being nice to you so he can sleep with you, a voice in her head whispered mockingly.

So? she answered back, applying a last pat of powder to her nose. I'm twenty-three years old, don't you think it's about time I slept with someone? I'm not going to be a nun and be celibate the rest of my life. Isn't sex what all men want anyway?

The voice was slow in responding. What if he's not like that?

She scoffed at herself, shut the powder compact, and slipped the slim case into her purse. She didn't believe any man could be different than what her mother had told her all her life. With that thought in mind, Danielle turned and walked out of the restroom for her evening performance.

Her eyes caught sight of Adam seated at his usual place at the bar, and she gave a moment's thought to Richie's whereabouts before remembering that he'd been missing most of her performances anyway. Unobserved, she studied Adam in profile. His sharply defined face had drawn her attention first, followed by the lean body he seemed to love to hide beneath an endless stream of dark sweaters and jeans.

She chewed on her lower lip, staring longingly at him, not even realizing she was gnawing off her carefully-applied lipstick. Her breath caught as she imagined what Adam looked like without his clothes. Would he be gentle with her and give her the chance to explore what he felt like? Would he be able to tell she'd never gone all the way? She wanted so much to be worldly, to be as confident as her favorite heroines, but she was scared.

Like so many other Cajuns, Danielle had been raised in the Roman Catholic Church. As a result, Danielle had a strong sense of what constituted sin... and she was certain that everything she was lusting for now was sinful. She quickly said a small prayer for forgiveness, her fingers unconsciously brushing the cross she wore.

Surely it wasn't wrong to want someone? How else was she to know if he was the right one? And if he was just out for sex, like she'd heard her mother tell her a million times all men were, then her heart couldn't be broken, right? She was sure her heart could only be broken if she expected more than sex from a man.

She wasn't going to fall in love, Danielle promised herself. Not in a million years. She sung enough songs to know what happened when one fell in love. Moreover, she'd watched her mother fall in love over and over again, until Danielle had stopped believing that her mother had found more than Mr. Right Now. Every time, her mother would swear she'd found the right one, only to be heartbroken when she discovered her true love was the cheating kind. Even Danielle's father had been a wanderer, shot to death by his mistress' outraged husband.

Danielle had only been four years old at the time, but she clearly remembered her mother crying for days after her husband's death. Danielle had been ten years old when her mother had remarried and uprooted them both from Louisiana. Two years later, she'd not been surprised to discover that her stepfather was as unfaithful as her father had been, nor had she been surprised when he asked her mother for a divorce. In the years since then, Danielle had watched an endless stream of men waltz through her mother's life, each one just as hormone-driven as the last. Danielle had long ago decided she wasn't going to be like her mother, wasn't going to have a broken heart.

Danielle took a deep breath. Tonight was the night, she promised herself. Tonight, she was going to find out exactly where she stood with Adam. He seemed almost content to act as if he'd never kissed her. Except that Danielle would look up sometimes and catch him looking at her longingly before his features became a blank, expressionless mask.

She didn't understand this odd friendship she'd with him. She'd little experience in the reality of a male friend who wasn't a boyfriend, having been warned against such a relationship by her mother. Consequently, she didn't know how to act. Richie was different; he'd acted as her agent, and she really had not dealt with him on a less professional basis. In any case, Richie was rarely around; he was always so busy with his studies that Danielle didn't see him except occasionally.

With one last, longing look at Adam, she stepped up onto the stage and began her set for the night.

Danielle looked beautiful tonight, Methos thought. He'd been forced to admit that he was hopelessly attracted to her. She was proving to be a far better distraction from his bewilderment over Richie's odd behavior than he could have hoped. He told himself that he ought to leave now, instead of hanging around the bar like he'd nothing better to do with his life than to watch Danielle perform.

He reminded himself that he couldn't afford to let Danielle in too close. She more than likely wouldn't understand why he'd secrets to keep. He could put her off for a while, but would she accept the explanation he would give for carrying a sword around all the time? So far, he'd been able to avoid betraying himself, but it would only be a matter of time before someone came along looking for a fight. His luck would only hold out for so long, and he couldn't count on Danielle not to be around when a challenge was issued. Her employment at Joe's put her squarely in one of the places where Immortals could regularly be found.

But still, oh still, it would be so lovely if.... Methos shook his head to clear it. Danielle was mortal, and innocent, and damn, he wasn't up to that added stress. Not with Richie acting so strangely. The part of him that liked sticky sweets greedily disagreed. He stared at the woman and sighed.

He wasn't afraid of a broken heart, being all too familiar with the pain, but what scared him was how deeply he could come to care for Danielle, how much he already cared for her. He was all too aware he had a bad habit of falling head over heels in love with mortal women, and the memory of Alexa was still too fresh in his mind. He knew he could lose himself in the roller coaster of being in love, the sheer consuming nature of passion and of trying to keep the flame alive, and he wasn't entirely sure he could trust himself to handle going through it again so soon after Alexa.

Ah, Alexa....

He quickly shut off that train of thought before he could become maudlin, stopped the aching that had not quite dissipated, and concentrated on Danielle. He realized abruptly that her set would soon be over, and she would be hurt if he left now without saying good-bye.

As he anticipated, Danielle headed over to where he sat as soon as she was finished. Somehow, he found himself agreeing to a late dinner at Lagniappe, and, at Luc's insistence, ended up helping to close the restaurant. He shut his mind to the voice that mocked his earlier decision to not let Danielle in too close and just let himself enjoy the pleasure of her company.

Those sticky sweets were just too tempting to pass up.

Thursday

The moon was beginning to set when Danielle arrived home, accompanied by Adam. She closed her eyes as she unlocked the door to her home, knowing that her invitation to Adam to come over was more bravado than wise. Her plan to seduce him was going much better than she'd anticipated, though he'd given her pause when he'd nearly left Lagniappe before she could invite him over. She thanked Luc's insistence that Adam see her home, as she lived across town from the restaurant.

She was running on adrenaline now, and she swallowed nervously as her guest stepped inside the one-bedroom apartment. As he surveyed his surroundings, Danielle tried to see it through his eyes: a living room barely big enough for the pale blue loveseat, matching side chair, cherry-stained coffee table, and TV stand with its ancient, remote-less TV; the almond-hued kitchen which formed the anchor of the L-shaped apartment; and the bedroom and bathroom beyond, which he couldn't see from the living room. A three-foot tall St. Bernard stuffed toy stood at guard near the hallway to the bedroom.

She smiled, trying to hide her apprehension. "It's not much, I know," she said apologetically.

"It doesn't have to be," he told her.

She took a deep breath, hoping that she'd read the signals right, that he was as interested in her as she was him.

His eyes revealed nothing as she moved toward him, trying to emulate the seductive walk she'd seen an actress in a movie perform. She didn't dare speak anything else as she invaded his space and pressed her body against him. Not for the first time, she wished her breasts were bigger, that she really knew what she was doing to him. Slowly, she traced the outline of his face, the curve of his lips, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. She smiled, growing more confident in her power. Standing on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his.

The contact sent ripples through her entire body. Eager to feel it again, she repeated the gesture and was rewarded when his lips pressed against hers, then gently covered her mouth. Instinctively, she placed a hand around the back of his neck, the other feeling the strong muscles of his upper back.

His arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer, if that was possible. His tongue traced a pattern across her bottom lip, seeking a permission Danielle didn't quite understand. She parted her lips to ask, but whatever she was going to say was smothered by his tongue's exploration of the recesses of her mouth. She felt herself quivering, her knees weakening. The blood was rushing to her head, and all she could think of was, God, this man can kiss....

The voice of her conscience chose that precise moment to announce itself. Do you know what you're doing, Danielle?? You're going to go to Hell for this, you know. It's a sin what you're doing ....

She squashed it deliberately, wanting to revel in the heady feeling his kisses were producing. He'd moved from his exploration of her mouth to an investigation of her neck. She shuddered with pleasure the moment he flicked his tongue over the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat.

His kiss was surprisingly gentle when he recaptured her lips again. As if he sensed her innocence, he took his time to savor her mouth. The tenderness was intoxicating, and Danielle closed her eyes, trying to deal with the sensations he was creating.

She felt his withdrawal, and dazedly opened her eyes. "Adam?" His name came out as whimper.

He half-smiled and brushed his lips across her mouth again. "Good night, Danielle." With that, he turned and walked out the door.

Frustrated, aching with a sense of loss Danielle didn't quite know how to handle, she stared in the direction of Adam's retreat for several minutes.

Guess I have to work on that plan of mine, she thought sourly.

Methos sighed as he looked back at Danielle's apartment. He was aroused, and knew that had he stayed, he would be well on his way to relief. Control was something he was long accustomed to exerting, but after several centuries of practice, he still didn't like it. He knew he was attracted to Danielle; had been since the first time he'd seen her. She'd thrown him for a loop tonight with her invitation, but she was too innocent to just fall into bed lightly.

Her sudden invitation demanded a new strategy, but Methos promised himself he would work on that after he figured out what was going on with Richie.

Though he wouldn't admit it openly, and would deny it if someone asked, Methos was worried again. Richie hadn't been home in over twenty-four hours, the first time he'd been missing since he'd freaked out in sword practice. As if that wasn't enough, Methos had discovered Richie's sword underneath the futon in the living room. He sincerely hoped that Richie was carrying at least the main gauche Methos had given him in his jacket; Methos didn't relish the thought of Richie wandering the city without a bladed weapon. Seacouver was full of Immortals, and not all of them were friends.

Methos glanced at his watch and realized it was too late to catch Joe at the bar. Joe would be long asleep by now, and wouldn't appreciate being woken up at this hour. He would have to wait until later in the day to grill the Watcher. With any luck, Richie would be back by then.

Chapter Six
Thursday, 2 PM

Returning from his trip to Joe's, where he'd been informed that Joe was unavailable, Methos noted Richie's motorcycle parked in the carport and wondered at the Immortal Presence he wasn't feeling. Methos shrugged mentally, thinking that maybe Richie had taken off with one of his friends.

Opening the door, he stepped inside. A quick glance reassured his sense of self-preservation that nothing was amiss, and Methos relaxed. He locked the back door, as was his habit, and headed for the kitchen, intent on grabbing a beer before settling down to watch the video he'd rented.

His feet met resistance at the entryway to the kitchen and he nearly tripped.

Swearing, thinking that it was yet another possession of Richie's that had been carelessly strewn on the floor, Methos looked down to pick it up.

It wasn't a possession of Richie's.

It was Richie.

Methos's shocked gaze took in the too-thin, jean- and T-shirt-clad body laying face down on the faux marble floor. How long Richie had been dead, Methos didn't know. He turned Richie over, trying to ascertain the cause of death. The lack of blood on Richie's clothing ruled out a weapon. That meant poison of some kind, but what?

He rose to his feet, his gaze searching the counters for probable cause. Nothing there. Not, Methos reminded himself, that it would make a difference; whatever killed Richie wasn't the right kind of instrument of death to be permanent. Still, Methos would feel better knowing what the poison was, so it could be dealt with accordingly. If the poison had been deliberate, and there was someone after Richie or Methos, Methos wanted to know.

He couldn't call Joe right now to ask for information; Mike, Joe's assistant bartender and partner in the bar, had said that Joe had had an appointment and wouldn't be back until later that evening.

Methos swore again. Who could have done this? Was it someone he or Richie knew? His mind raced with the possibilities before he forced his attention back to the situation at his feet. Determining responsibility could wait until he'd a chance to talk to Richie.

He studied the corpse, realizing that it had already been far too long for Richie to revive. He'd seen Richie recover from wounds before and knew that Richie was generally a fast healer.

He recalled that, to his knowledge, Richie had not been eating as much as Methos knew the young man was capable of, and had not been for a long time. That would slow down his recovery time considerably.

Methos remembered the day of sword practice after Richie had frozen at the touch of Methos's blade. Briefly, he wondered if he'd been too quick to dismiss the incident as being a freak occurrence. Had he really seen Richie on drugs that day? If so, had Richie been concealing his use by absenting himself from Methos's vicinity?

Methos grew angry at the thought. He remembered all too well his own struggles with addiction in centuries past. What had gotten into Richie? What was so bad that he couldn't cope? In the past few weeks, Methos had been certain that Richie had, for the most part, recovered from Mac's attempt on his life. The nightmares from that incident had, to all appearances, ceased to plague Richie. By taking Kenryk's head, Richie had proven that he could successfully handle himself in a sword fight Richie's odd behavior, while a puzzle, had a reasonable explanation — he had a new girlfriend, the first he'd had since Paris. Or was there more to that?

Methos paced, frustrated, as he tried to figure out what had happened, and why. He knew he wouldn't get answers until Richie revived, but the mystery nagged at Methos like the bite of a horsefly.

He paused in his pacing and checked the still body. It was a useless gesture, one that Methos realized the second he performed the action. He would feel Richie waking up long before he saw Richie move.

Trying to distract himself from worrying at Richie's slow recovery, he debated the wisdom of moving Richie. No, better to leave him right where he is. The disorientation that comes with revival is bad enough without adding anything to it.

Methos sighed, and thought of just packing his bags and heading for a nice desert island off Morocco. The water would warm, the beaches empty of people to bother him, and if he wanted companionship, he could just head into the mainland. He had not been there in years, and he could check to see if he still owned that island off the coast.... There was really nothing in Seacouver to keep him here, nothing to tie him down, no job, no commitments. Danielle might miss him, but she would get over his disappearance in time. Joe was used to him leaving for weeks at a time, so if Methos left now, it wouldn't be anything unusual in the Watcher's eyes.

All it would take would be a phone call, and his tickets would be waiting for him at the airport. He could be packed and ready in minutes. All he needed was his credit cards, his sword, and he could be on his way.... .

His gaze fell on the cordless phone lay on the counter, just within reach.

Go ahead, just leave the boy to lose his head, a voice in his head whispered, and when Joe finds out, you'll only wish it was a nightmare.

Not that Methos was afraid of the mortal. He merely preferred to avoid Joe's wrath for the sake of not being the target of someone's anger. Invariably, being in that situation led to someone getting hurt... usually him.

Besides, you have plans for Richie, the voice continued, sensing victory. You haven't spent the last eight months working with him for nothing, have you?

Methos resigned himself to waiting for Richie to revive.

I thought not, the voice said smugly.

Minutes ticked by.

Then, slowly, Richie's Presence flooded Methos's senses like a rush of water bursting through an hole in a dike, trickling at first before nearly overwhelming his consciousness and then fading to a dull, more manageable current. Methos sighed in relief.

"Have a nice nap, Richie?" Methos asked with apparent nonchalance. Despite his relief, he was disturbed by Richie's 'death', and was fighting not to show just how much it affected him. "Something you ate disagreed with you?"

Richie got to his feet stiffly. He faced his elder and stared at him. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "What do you care, old man? You'd rather be anywhere but here right now."

"That's not true," Methos denied. Mentally, he winced at the accurate assessment. "Who did this to you?"

"No one," Richie replied.

"What?" Methos was incredulous. "You just dropped dead of a heart attack?"

"You got a problem with that?" Richie challenged scathingly. "What, no Immortal you've ever known died of a heart attack? Besides, if I want to keel over and die occasionally, that's my business. At least it's not permanent."

"Richie, what is wrong with you?" Methos demanded. "You have too much to live for to kill yourself, even temporarily."

The younger Immortal turned away and reached into the refrigerator for a drink. He emerged from behind the door a moment later, already guzzling a beer. His eyes dared Methos to comment.

Methos recognized the look, and knew that any concern he would express now would be ignored. He sighed angrily, torn between his desire to shake sense into Richie and his own need to stay in control of his emotions.

"You expect me to stand by and watch you do this to yourself?"

"Yes, damn it," Richie retorted. He slammed the refrigerator door shut. Draining the last of the beer, he threw the bottle into the nearby trash can, rattling the container.

"I didn't ask to be your student. You volunteered. 'Poor Richie. His teacher tried to take his head three fucking times. He needs help.' I don't need your help. I don't need anybody."

He stalked to the living room and grabbed his jacket and sword from where they lay discarded on the futon. A heartbeat later, Methos was left with the sound of the slamming door and the distinctive roar of Richie's motorcycle echoing in his ears.

Well, that was brilliant, the voice in Methos's head declared.

He deserves it, Methos answered. If he wants to commit suicide, that's his problem, not mine.

Then how come you were ready to get Joe involved earlier, to see if he was lying somewhere dead?

Oh, shut up.

Chapter Seven
Thursday 5 PM

The doorbell sounded insistently and Danielle hurried through her small apartment to answer its summons. She glanced down at her attire — a ragged T-shirt and jeans — and prayed it wasn't Adam at her door. She didn't think she looked her best at the moment. She took a deep breath just in case, and pulled open the door.

"Richie!" she exclaimed in surprise.

He grinned tiredly. "That's me," he acknowledged. "I'm not coming at a bad time?"

"No, no," she reassured him, opening the door wider. "Come in."

He stepped over the threshold and Danielle shut the door behind him.

"Can I get you anything?" she offered brightly.

"No, thanks." He shoved his trembling hands in the pockets of jeans, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

They stood awkwardly a moment before Danielle gestured to the loveseat, indicating that her guest should sit, and seated herself in a side chair across from it. Richie refused the offer with a shake of his head.

"I'm not going to stay long," he told her. "I just wanted to say I'm sorry I haven't been the greatest agent you've ever had."

She laughed softly. "Considering the creep I had last, you've been wonderful. You leave me alone to sing and aren't trying to tell me what I need to do all the time."

"You deserve better than what I've been giving you, Danielle," Richie said earnestly. "I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted to drop me as your agent, I understand."

"Why on earth would I do that?" Danielle rose. "I'm singing in Joe's and I've never been happier."

Richie sighed in obvious relief. "Good. I was afraid you might want to change your mind." He turned to leave.

"No, wait." She stood and reached for him, stopping his movement. "What gave you the idea that I'd want to change my mind about you?"

Richie tried to smile. "Oh, nothing," he lied blandly. "I just thought maybe Adam might have said something to you. I heard you two are seeing each other."

Confused, Danielle stared at him. "What would Adam have to say about you?"

"Oh, never mind." Richie shrugged. He seemed agitated, and Danielle wondered the cause.

"I'll see you at the club tomorrow?" Danielle asked hopefully. "Joe put my name on the marquee as the feature act starting tomorrow."

"I'll try to be there," Richie promised.

Danielle beamed, completely missing the fact that Richie didn't meet her eyes. "Great!" She hesitated, took a deep breath. "You and Adam are good friends, right?"

He sighed. "Right now, I'm not so sure of that."

"Why?"

"He's just so — " Richie moved his hands as if to juggle a proper description and finally settled on " — so much older than me, it's scary."

Danielle frowned. "He's what? Twenty-eight? You're twenty-three, though I'd swear you look nineteen." She saw the involuntary wince. "Sorry, but you do. Anyway, that's only five years."

Try a thousand times that, and you'd be more right, Richie thought sourly. He realized his description required a bit more explanation. "With Adam," he told Danielle, "five years can be like a thousand times that."

"I don't believe you," Danielle said, crossing her arms. "He's too cute and nice to be that harsh."

Richie snorted. "You have no idea who he is, Danielle." He paused. "I wish you weren't involved with Adam. You'll only get hurt."

Genuinely confused now, Danielle stepped forward. "What do you mean?"

Richie looked at her, wishing he could just tell her something that sounded more acceptable than the truth. He was fresh out of plausible fabrications. His head ached, and his mouth tasted like metal. He swallowed painfully, wishing he had a drink, preferably something alcoholic. Maybe then he could convince Danielle to stay away. A nice girl like her didn't need the complications of an Immortal in her life, especially not one as manipulative and self-interested as Methos.

"You wouldn't understand, Danielle. Not in a million years."

"Is it something to do with Adam?" she guessed. "Is he wanting you to be something you don't want to be? What?"

He sighed heavily. "Was that a multiple choice question? If so, I pick answer 'D': all of the above. Or even better, answer 'E': I know what he wants, but I can't give it to him. It doesn't matter in the end anyway."

"Surely if you're friends, you can talk about it, whatever it is."

He looked at her.

Instinctively, Danielle stepped back at the raw, bleeding river of broken glass she saw in his expression. Her breath lodged somewhere in her throat as her caring heart wept for Richie. She swallowed, shuddering with the effort. "Richie, what's wrong?"

Richie turned away then. "It doesn't matter." He opened the door. "I'm not the one he's chosen."

"Chosen? What do you mean? Richie!!"

Richie ignored her and kept right on walking out the door.

Friday 9 a.m.

He walked for hours, ignoring the rain that came and pelted his jacket, until he was no longer cognizant of where he'd started walking. His memory was blurred as to how long it had been since he'd left Danielle's. Somewhere along the way, he stopped and bought speed, but all that managed to accomplish was to keep him awake, wired, and jumpy. Some part of his brain recognized that he needed sleep and food, but he couldn't seem to get rid of the dry, metallic taste in his mouth. Anything he ate just came back up, anyway.

The drug had worn off hours ago, and Richie knew he needed another dose to get through the day, but he was broke. He couldn't remember where his wallet had gone to, and he was too tired to try and figure it out. It was no big loss in any case; all the identification in it was falsified, and therefore, easily replaced.

He sighed tiredly. He was no longer sure who was the real Richie Ryan. He didn't recognize himself anymore. He felt like someone had taken over his body, assimilated it while he'd been sleeping, and the real Richie Ryan was a stranger.

He wasn't the persona his identification had claimed him to be. He didn't want to be the headhunting, get-them-before-they-got-him Immortal he'd been after Mac's Dark Quickening. He didn't want to be the Immortal Methos seemed to want him to be: the successor to all that Mac had promised to be, before he'd gone crazy. He sure wasn't the punk street kid he still sometimes saw himself to be. He was a failure as a college student and potential computer programmer. He wasn't even really interested in sex, and who would have thought that could happen?

All he was sure of at the moment was that the only thing he wanted to do was crawl inside his head, curl up, and die. He laughed harshly, remembering how Methos had found him dead on the kitchen floor.

Oh, yeah, you handled that one real good, Ryan.

He wouldn't be surprised if Methos had gone to Joe and had the Watchers scouring the city to find him. He had not been home since that incident. He wondered briefly if any of the Watchers knew the city like he did, then shrugged fatalistically. Someone would find him eventually; someone always had.

A passing car hit a particularly large puddle, splashing Richie, and he ignored the new layer of wet grime, knowing it was only temporary, with the rain pouring down in steady sheets as it was. The rising wind and the rainwater found the rips, courtesy of Kenryk's sword, in his leather jacket, but Richie ignored the damp, seeping cold just as he had the splashing. He felt far colder inside than he did on the outside.

Unconsciously, his right hand slipped inside his jacket to touch the reassuring weight of the main gauche he'd taken to carrying. The metal was warm from the heat of his body, and reminded Richie that he'd been so angry with Methos, he'd left the house without his sword. Or had he left it strapped to his motorcycle? He didn't recall bringing it into the house before he'd collapsed in the kitchen.

Come to think of it, where was his motorcycle? He frowned as he realized he couldn't remember where he'd parked his bike. He clearly remembered visiting Danielle, but the time between his argument with Methos and visiting Danielle was hazy.

It won't matter in a few minutes, he promised himself.

He looked up as he crossed the street, blinking past the rain. The alley was a familiar sight, too long unseen, but Richie didn't need the street lamp to illuminate the faded mural that adorned the entrance to what had been Tessa's studio.

He knew that the shop was no longer an antique store. It wasn't anything at the moment. He'd drifted back occasionally, just to see if the mural was still there, if someone had painted it over and wiped out one more trace of Tessa Noel. His gaze searched the wall, seeking and finding the lightning bolt he'd convinced Tessa to paint when Mac had not been around to notice. Richie was to have painted that over, but somehow, it had stayed. Richie smiled briefly at the picture, then he sobered as sadness washed over him. He took a deep breath, and used old habits to slip, unnoticed, into the vacant building.

The air was musty and damp. He could see that the previous tenants had not altered the layout of the interior much. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing.

He closed his eyes against the sudden rush of memory. Through a cobwebbed haze, he was sure he could hear Tessa's laughter ringing out, see her golden hair bouncing as she jogged down the stairs, and witness her clearly shocked expression unfold when Mac told her Richie was going to live with them. In the space of a few days, Richie had gone from everything he'd known and taken for granted to a life as far on the other side of the tracks as he'd never imagined he could get. He'd tried to hide his culture shock in wisecracks and sometimes outright lying, but somehow, Tessa and Mac had seen through his mask and had found ways to reach him.

Amidst the stillness of the abandoned building he'd grown to call home, Richie found himself longing for the simple comfort of those days. He laughed softly at himself, remembering how he'd taken for granted that he was Immortal merely because he was young, strong, and fearless.

How many times had he given Mac a scare by tempting the fates to turn him Immortal before he was due? Probably too many. Yet as frustrated as Mac and Tessa would get with him, they never turned him out, never said that he disrupted their lives with all the force of a tornado, never denied him sanctuary in what had been their childless home.

Home.

He'd not had a real one since Emily Ryan had taken him in and treated him like a son. At nearly seventeen years of age, he'd learned not to expect to find one, not after a lifetime in the foster care system. To be taken in by a Scot and a Frenchwoman, and be loved unconditionally after all those years, had been a fantasy Richie had not even dared to dream. Then, in a mugging that would forever be etched into Richie's memory, it had been blown away.

The dojo had been a home of sorts, but Richie still thought of it as being more Mac's than his. Paris had, in time, become a city Richie could honestly call his own, but Richie had been always conscious of the fact that he was an American and therefore a stranger. Then, he'd died publicly, and all of Europe as a location of permanent residence had been out of the question for decades.

If a man was defined by the place he called home, what did that make Richie Ryan? He was the All-American mutt, that was what he was. At the moment, he couldn't even claim the place in which he was living as his own, which somehow made his current line of thinking even more depressing. How could he possibly compete against all the older, stronger, more grounded Immortals?

Moreover, if the one lesson his first teacher had speared into Richie's soul was that he couldn't trust anyone, that every time he trusted someone, he would be betrayed, how could he possibly count on anyone to help him become a better fighter? He knew he could trust Methos, but just how loyal of a friend was Methos? He hadn't wanted to fight Kenryk, had argued passionately against doing so, saying that as long as Mac was on Holy Ground, there wasn't anything Kenryk could do. If someone came hunting Richie, would Methos do anything about it?

Richie shook his head slowly. No, probably not. Methos had not survived five thousand years without looking out for number one above all else. He saw advantage in helping Richie, and Richie was now just one huge disappointing failure. God knew he'd heard that phrase enough in his mortal lifetime. He should have expected that his Immortal lifetime would be likewise.

It was his fault for believing anything different. Immortality, he'd heard Mac say often enough, didn't magically transform Richie into anything more than a guy who couldn't die permanently by anything other than a decapitation. He was a fool for believing, for hoping, for wanting otherwise.

Richie looked around the barren building once last time. He wasn't sure of what day it was, and he supposed he should be in class now, turning in his long-overdue assignments, but he'd not felt like going for days. What was the use? He was never going to be anyone important. He certainly was not going to be the oldest Immortal's chosen candidate for the Prize. He wasn't the brash teenager who had broken into this building a handful of years earlier, and yet he was forever frozen in a teenager's body.

He sighed, feeling the weight of too many unanswered questions, too many complex pieces to the riddle of who he was supposed to be, now that he'd burned his bridges. He didn't think Methos would welcome him back. He'd pissed Methos off, and rightly so. Danielle didn't need him. She'd managed her career just fine without him being around. Hell, she was so in love with Methos, Richie didn't believe she would even notice he was gone. He was fairly certain that the only person who would miss him was miles away and out of his mind.

What was he expecting to find here anyway? Richie asked himself. Some evidence of who he'd been? Some vestige of the Highlander?

Yeah, right.

He laughed harshly at his foolishness. The only proof lay in his memories, and those were no good anyway. He was a royal failure at being an Immortal. He was a disappointment to both of his teachers. He could barely keep his head, and he couldn't cope with anything. Methos was right, Richie thought, remembering Methos's words. Richie would never last.

He withdrew the main gauche from his jacket, ignoring the trembling of his hand. He thought of how many times Methos had taken him by surprise in their sword practice with such a weapon, until Methos had finally given him one to use.

Mac would've called it cheating to carry this, Richie mused. Honor was his life. And mine? Mine is nothing.

Mac would have been a good listener, Richie thought. No matter what Richie had done, Mac had always been there to talk to, to listen. He would have understood, or at least tried to, unlike Methos. Methos never acted like he gave a damn about anything other than his intent to shepherd the winner of the Prize. That much, Richie had figured out.

Richie's vision blurred as he stared at the short, simply styled blade in his hand. He thought again of how a few years ago, the weapon was a thing of beauty, of fantasy, of perhaps a ticket to a meal if he found a fence willing to take it. Now, it was an extra advantage in a fight to the death. Maybe it wasn't the honorable, Boy Scout thing to do, but as Methos had pointed out to Richie, there was no rule that said that an Immortal had to fight with just one bladed weapon.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was so tired.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of not understanding who he was.

Tired of being alone.

Tired of being tired.

He thought he'd found the answers, in taking Kenryk's Quickening, in taking speed to feel better, in just trying to cope, but he couldn't go on anymore. He was going crazy trying to figure out his life. There were no magic clues to the puzzle of his existence, no reason as to why Mac had tried to kill him three times or to why Methos seemed determined to ensure that Richie was someone Richie didn't believe he could be. If he couldn't make sense of it all, what was the use of going forward?

He reversed the direction of the dagger's point so that it pointed inward and tightened his grip. He inhaled deeply, bracing for the pain, and closed his eyes.

And welcomed oblivion.  

Chapter Eight

"Joe, have you seen Adam or Richie?" Danielle asked worriedly as she took up position on her usual stool at the front of the stage.

Joe paused his tuning of his guitar to scan the packed Saturday evening crowd. Not seeing either Immortal, he pursed his lips, baffled. Methos was usually early and spent a few minutes before the show flirting with Danielle. Richie was rarely around the bar these days, though he was supposed to be Danielle's agent.

"Did they say they'd be here?" Joe asked Danielle.

Her expression was clearly puzzled as she answered, "Richie stopped by my apartment Thursday and promised he'd be here. Since he didn't show up last night, I thought he'd be here tonight. Adam's usually here."

"Maybe they're just running late," Joe offered. He sincerely hoped that was the case, and that neither had run into headhunters. He didn't want to lose any of his friends.

Danielle sighed, clearly unhappy. Joe knew that she'd been planning to dedicate a song to Adam, as well as to show to Richie just how his faith in her was appreciated.

"Maybe," she agreed reluctantly. Turning to the rest of the band, she asked, "Everybody ready?"

She received nods and murmurs of agreement. Flipping on her microphone, she turned to the crowd and smiled. "Hello everyone! I'm Danielle, and on behalf of the band, I'd like to welcome you to Joe's.... "

Seven songs later, there was still no sign of either Adam or Richie. One of the waitresses came up to the stage and handed a note-inscribed-napkin to Joe. He leaned over towards the light and saw that the note simply read "Office — ASAP."

Watcher business, he interpreted, sighing. He'd been looking forward to playing tonight, but apparently, Danielle wasn't going to be the only one to be disappointed tonight. He was too well aware that an interruption of his playing meant serious business, and hoped that none of his friends were involved. He made his excuses to the band and headed for his office.

He found Methos waiting for him. "Sorry to pull you away from your playing, Joe, but this is important."

The blues player sighed. "When is it not important with you? Who is it now that you want to know about?"

Methos hesitated a moment, causing Joe to eye him speculatively.

"Don't tell me you're scared of this guy."

"No," Methos said, suddenly impatient. "It's Richie."

"Richie?" Joe looked surprised.

"I don't know what to do with him," Methos swore. "He won't talk to me about what's wrong. One minute, he's getting on my nerves, talking a mile a minute, full of energy, and the next I realize he hasn't slept or eaten in days. I thought everything was okay, but.... "

Joe rubbed his eyes tiredly and tried to reconcile the Richie he knew with the one Methos was describing. It didn't fit. Richie was so much stronger than most young Immortals, judging from what Joe had gleaned from the Watcher Chronicles as well as from what he'd personally witnessed. Richie had survived a rough childhood on the streets, and then had followed up that feat by seemingly managing to make the transition to Immortality with a minimum amount of chaos.

Joe was also aware of how much progress Methos and Richie had made in the past eight months. When Joe had left for the Watcher conference in Paris, he'd been under the impression that all was well.

"Maybe he's just stressed from school and everything's just catching up to him," Joe offered.

"No," Methos said, shaking his head. "This is worse. I haven't seen him in two days."

He looked at the old mortal, knowing he was going to ask him to bend his Oath yet again. He could see the foreknowledge of his request written on the other man's face. He realized that Joe wouldn't give him anything until he had more information.

Methos sighed.

"A couple of weeks ago, I walked in to find him dead on the floor. I wanted to ask you then, but you never seemed to be available. I think he's taking drugs, but I can't prove it. You know where he's been. Just let me see his Watcher reports."

Joe met Methos's imploring stare, knowing what his friend was asking. Resignedly, he muttered, "All right. I'll make some calls, talk to his Watcher. It'll take some time, you know that." It was on the tip of Joe's tongue to suggest Methos go search the city for Richie, but he held back. Something in Methos's expression told Joe that Methos had already attempted that.

"Thanks, Joe."

Methos turned to leave.

Joe stopped him just before he opened the door. "Why do you care, Methos?" he asked, voicing a question that just had occurred to him. "I know I asked you a favor a couple of months ago, but you've done more than just make sure Richie could keep his head." He paused. "It's as if you have some purpose behind wanting to make sure Richie learns from you."

Methos shook his head and faced Joe. "As much as you'd like to think I have some master scheme at work, Joe, I don't. I'm just a guy who's looking out for a friend, nothing more. Immortality is a gift, and I hate to see someone just throw it all away, especially someone as young and with as much potential as Richie."

"Where does Danielle fit in this?"

"Danielle has nothing to do with finding Richie," Methos said flatly.

Joe stared at Methos a moment, then finally decided to accept Methos's words at face value. "I'll call you when I know something," he promised. "Just be careful with Danielle, all right?"

Methos half-chuckled, but said nothing as he walked out of the office.

He saw that Danielle was still on-stage, and paused by the bar to take a moment's pleasure in the sound of her voice. He didn't want to linger long, even as he knew he could distract himself with her company, so when she finished the song, he made his way to the exit. He'd made it through the heavy crowd and was already out in the parking lot, getting ready to open the door of his sport utility vehicle when Danielle caught up with him.

"Adam, wait," she called out to him.

Realizing that she must have been watching for him, Methos paused.

She hurried across the parking lot, mindful of the rain puddles, and stopped in front of Methos. She wasn't wearing a coat, though she was wearing a thick teal sweater over matching jeans. Still, she shivered unconsciously against the biting wind. "Adam," she said breathlessly.

"What, Danielle?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"Whatever for?"

She took a deep breath, suddenly uncomfortable. "For the other night at my apartment."

His mind flashed to the image of Danielle, trembling with passion in his arms, and caught himself before he could paint a new picture. Hiding his desire, Methos smiled gently. "No."

Danielle crossed her arms and gripped her elbows, partly from cold, partly in an instinctively self-protecting gesture. Confusion was clearly etched in her face. "Well, if you're not mad at me, what is it?"

Methos bit back a sigh. He hadn't anticipated this. "It's just something I have to take care, that's all," he told her vaguely.

Danielle searched his face. "Is it something Richie said to you about me?"

"You talked to Richie? When?"

Puzzled, Danielle looked at him. "Um, it's Saturday, so it would've been... Thursday. He stopped by my apartment around dinnertime. He promised me to be at my show last night, but he never arrived. Since I didn't see you last night either, I thought maybe the two of you went to a movie or something."

Methos shook his head. "I haven't seen him since Thursday." If Richie's been gone that long, he might be dead.. He kept his fear out of his voice through centuries of control. "He must have stopped by your place after he left home." He paused. "What did he say to you?"

"It was really odd," Danielle said slowly. "He acted like he didn't think I should be with you."

He's right, Methos agreed silently.

"I didn't understand anything he said," Danielle continued, "and he wouldn't explain. He said you had chosen him for something." She looked at Methos earnestly. "Do you know what he meant by that?"

"No," Methos lied, even as his alarm grew. "Did he say anything else?"

"No," Danielle replied. "Is something wrong with Richie?"

"I'm sure it's nothing," Methos said dismissively. Then, more to comfort himself than to distract Danielle, he kissed her.

He felt, rather than heard, her gasp of surprise. A tiny bolt of satisfaction streaked through him at being able to catch her off guard. For a moment, he let himself be lost in the feel of her lips against his, the taste of her mouth on his tongue. Her body was so close and undoubtedly cold from her exposure. It wouldn't take much to take her home and ensure that she was warmed up... but Methos reined in his desire.

"Go on, get back into Joe's before you catch a cold," he admonished her as he stepped back. Quickly, he got into his vehicle and drove off, leaving a dazed, stunned Danielle to stare after him.

Slowly, Danielle turned back into the blues club. Wonderingly, she touched her lips. She stared at her fingers a moment before hugging herself with glee.

Adam was still interested in her. He wasn't like the men Danielle had witnessed her mother with, but he was still interested in her. Maybe there was hope for her plan yet..  

Chapter Nine
Sunday 2 PM
Methos's and Richie's apartment

Methos snatched the phone from its cradle, not letting it finish the first ring. "Yes?"

"No word yet," Joe informed him. "He was last seen at Danielle's, but his Watcher lost him in the rain. His motorcycle is parked in a park a couple blocks north of Danielle's apartment." Joe hesitated before adding, "His sword is still strapped to the bike."

Methos cursed.

"We have no confirmations of a Quickening anywhere in the city." Methos knew that although it had been raining, the storm had been without lightning; consequently, the light from a Quickening would be noticed. He felt reassured by that news, but it still didn't settle the trepidation that seemed to have found a permanent home in his stomach.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Methos walked over to the door, phone still in hand, and looked through the peephole. He was surprised to find Danielle standing nervously on the doorstep.

"Did you give Danielle my address?" he asked Joe.

"She said that you gave it to her, but she wrote it down somewhere and lost the note."

"I didn't, Joe," Methos said coldly. Damn it, he didn't need this right now. He should not have encouraged her interest, even if she was an intriguing distraction. Those sticky sweets were going to be the death of him yet.

He took another look through the peephole. Danielle appeared as though she was reconsidering her decision to come, and Methos knew that in another minute, she would leave. He could pretend that he'd gone elsewhere, but he'd parked his SUV in the front of the apartment rather than in the carport. She would correctly surmise that he was home, and Joe had probably told her that she would probably find 'Adam' when she arrived.

He swore again and opened the door as Joe's apology sounded in his ears. Methos shivered as the cold wind bit through his sweater and jeans. He saw that it had stopped raining, and that a layer of ice now coated everything. Danielle's back was turned to him, her blue wool dress coat a vivid splash of color against the drab landscape. She was wearing high heeled boots and was dejectedly walking the concrete pathway to her brown Chevette.

"Forget it, Joe. Just keep me posted."

Methos hung up the phone. As he did so, he could see that Danielle was halfway down the short walk.

"Danielle, wait," he called.

As if in slow motion, Methos watched as Danielle pivoted in mid-stride. Her left foot, however, hit a patch of ice and suddenly, Danielle went from upright to wildly scrambling for balance. She lost the fight and hit the ground hard.

Methos resisted the urge to dash out to check on her. She'd already proven that the sidewalk was as iced over as the bushes in the front yard were. "Are you okay?" Methos asked, carefully picking his way to her.

"I-I'm not sure." She reached for Methos's hand and attempted to stand. Her breath hissed and her face contorted with pain.

Methos took another look at her. Her left leg was sticking out at an odd angle, and he realized she'd broken it. "No, I don't think you are," he advised her. "Don't move, you've broken your leg."

She began to cry. "It hurts, oh, it hurts. I've never broken anything," she sobbed.

"Hush," he admonished her as he gently picked her up and carried her into the house, mindful of the slickness of the walkway.

He set her on the futon and began administering first aid. With two Immortals in the house, he didn't have much in the way of medical supplies, so he improvised. Danielle's knit scarf became the binding material for a rolled-up newspaper-based splint. Her face was white with pain when he was through.

"I'm sorry, Danielle," Methos told her quietly as he finished his work. To soothe her, he kissed her tenderly. "If I don't splint this now, it will be more difficult to move you later. Do you want me to call an ambulance or do you just want me to drive you to the hospital?"

Reassured by his kiss, Danielle looked at him through tearstained and pain-filled eyes. "You certainly know what you're doing," she commented.

He smiled at her. "I thought about being a doctor once," he said mildly, his manner not revealing that he'd, in fact, been a physician on several occasions. "Now, shall I take you or not?"

Danielle took a shuddering breath. She was scared, and somehow the prospect of an ambulance seemed too terrifying. "I trust you." She breathed against a fresh wave of pain and closed her eyes. "You haven't taken advantage of me yet."

Startled, Methos looked at her. "You think I'd do that?"

She didn't answer, and Methos took her silence for a reply. "Danielle, I don't know whatever gave you the idea I would, but even if I would, now wouldn't be the time."

She searched his expression a moment before chuckling softly. "Yeah, I guess I'm a mess now, huh?"

"Not too much," he reassured her as he went to slip on his coat. He made sure that she didn't see his sword in its sheath within the coat.

Within a few minutes, he had her settled more or less comfortably in his sport utility vehicle. He wished he had some aspirin, something other than an ice pack to ease Danielle's pain, but he had nothing to give. She was trying to be stoic, but as they sped through the city to the nearest hospital, his stolen glances showed him that she was crying and clenching the armrest with each new wave of pain.

She insisted that he stay with her for as long as the doctors allowed him to, and he found himself not-so-reluctantly agreeing. He reasoned that until the Watchers found Richie, there was little he could do there to improve the situation. He smiled ironically as he thought about how, once again, Danielle had proved to be the perfect distraction.

It was past midnight before he learned that Danielle was being kept overnight for observation. She'd broken the leg cleanly, and was now sporting a cast, but the medical personnel wanted to be sure there were no other complications. Methos agreed with their assessment of the damage, and, after calling Luc to let him know what had happened with Danielle so Luc could notify Danielle's mother, left the hospital.

Joe was waiting for him when he arrived home. He barely got out of his SUV before Joe accosted him.

"Where have you been?" Joe demanded. "I tried to reach you on your cell phone, but all I keep getting was an 'out of service' message."

Methos pulled out the device in question from his coat pocket and checked the display. He swore when he realized the battery was dead. "Did you find Richie?" He ignored Joe's first question, his concern for his fellow Immortal overriding everything else at the moment.

Joe nodded. "About an hour ago. I told them not to touch the body."

Methos swallowed, fearing the worst. "Where?"

"The old antique store." The Watcher snorted. "Should've looked there first, it was so obvious."

Methos looked Joe, not comprehending the significance of the location or even recognizing where it was. He was beginning to realize that he didn't know Richie as well as he thought he had. Joe made the location sound as if Methos ought to know

"Just drive," Joe told him. "I'll navigate, and explain on the way."  

Monday
3 a.m.

"I still don't understand why you wanted to wait until you had him home before doing this," Joe stated for the umpteenth time.

Methos laid his burden on the floor of the living room, near the coffee table, and spared the Watcher a glance. "You just spent twenty minutes explaining to me that antique store was Richie's first real home in years, and you have to ask that question?" he queried mildly. He shoved the coffee table against the futon, clearing enough space around Richie so that when he revived, he wouldn't hurt himself on the furniture.

"He can't live in the past, Joe. This is his home now, whether he likes it or not."

Joe sighed. "Every time I think I have you figured out, Methos, you surprise me." He paused. "Do you think he'll come back okay?"

Methos shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

He reached for the main gauche that was buried in Richie's heart. It released its hold on Richie's flesh with a great sucking noise that seemed unnaturally loud.

Five minutes ticked by.

Fifteen.

"He should be back by now, shouldn't he?" Joe asked worriedly, taking a seat on an overstuffed side chair.

"It's hard to tell sometimes," Methos reassured him. "If he's been dead several hours, it might take longer."

Thirty.

Methos cleaned the dagger and set it on the coffee table.

In an obvious effort to distract their attention, and to break the silence, Joe asked, "Did you and Danielle talk?"

"Before or after she broke her leg?" Methos asked dryly. His tone made it clear that the accident wouldn't have happened if Joe hadn't been so willing to give Methos's address to Danielle.

Joe started to reply, but one look at his friend and he subsided into silence.

Forty-five.

Over Joe's objections, Methos removed Richie's jacket from his body and searched the pockets. Within short order, he discovered an empty prescription bottle in one of them. A quick call to an all-night pharmacy identified the prescription as blood pressure medication — a kind of methamphetamine, which Methos recognized as having stimulant properties.

No wonder Richie hasn't looked like he's slept. He literally hasn't.

Joe looked horrified that Methos's suspicions had proven true. He hadn't known this part of Richie's recent life, though a quick glance through the field reports he'd brought with him was damning proof.

One hour.

Richie's Watcher delivered Richie's motorcycle, rescued from the park where Richie had left it, and turned over Richie's sword to Joe and "Adam Pierson."

Two.

Three.

Methos convinced Joe to go home and get some rest. The Watcher left reluctantly, acquiescing only after extracting a promise from Methos that he would call when Richie was back on his feet.

Four.

Come on, Richie. Wake up.

Still four more hours passed.

Then, something whispered at the back of Methos's consciousness. His hopes rose as a faint, unmistakable hum vibrated through him, then died.

Richie, I know you're there. Live.

A few more minutes passed.

Gradually, the song returned, gaining volume as Methos saw Richie stir, then it muted as Methos's sixth sense adjusted to the other Immortal's proximity.

Thank the Gods. Methos rose from his vigil and walked over to the kitchen to fill a glass full of water. He used the simple chore to compose himself, not wanting to reveal just how concerned he had been, afraid that his first words to Richie would be full of anger. At that precise moment, he felt like a father who had discovered that his beloved son was an addict. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the feeling.

Richie blinked, groaned, and sat up slowly as he tried to figure out where he was.

"I'm home," Richie said in raspy confusion. "How did I — " Richie broke off his thoughts as Methos handed him the glass.

"Drink," Methos ordered, fighting the urge to demand answers.

Richie met his elder's gaze a moment. Methos could see the argument forming in Richie's eyes and moved to forestall it.

"If you don't replenish your fluids quickly, you'll hurt later. You know that as well as I do."

Richie couldn't argue with the logic of that statement, and drank.

Wordlessly, Methos took the glass, refilled it, and handed it back to Richie, who drank again.

When Methos was satisfied that Richie had enough, he placed the empty prescription bottle on the coffee table.

Richie saw it and blanched. He scrambled to his feet. "It's not mine, I swear."

Methos looked him. "Don't lie to me, Richie," he growled. "I was conning people long before I knew there was even a term for what I was doing, and that was millennia before your existence."

"So what am I to you, then?" Richie demanded bitterly. "A nanosecond. Why do you waste your time with me? What difference does it make if I take something to make me feel good, to help me stay awake long enough so that I can keep up with school and chase the nightmares away?" He turned away from Methos then and started towards the stairs. "You said it yourself that I disappointed you. I'll just pack my things and get the fuck out of your life so you can start grooming the next Prize contender."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Richie stopped. In a surprisingly accurate mimicry of Methos's accent, he quoted, "'Richie, you have so much potential.' 'Richie, you can't fight Kenryk. Think about your future.' 'Richie, I want you to succeed.' 'Richie, live, grow stronger, fight another day.'"

Methos shook his head slowly, finding it difficult to believe that Richie had made that interpretation. "That wasn't my intent, Richie."

Liar, a voice in Methos's head whispered, laughing hysterically. The boy's smarter than you gave him credit for.

"Oh?" Richie asked sarcastically. He turned again, and walked back to face Methos. "You made it very clear to me that you thought Mac was the dude to win the Prize, if not Connor. For now, they're out of the Game, on Holy Ground till who knows when. I'm Mac's last student, and now I'm yours. If Mac can't win the Game, and you're out of it, guess who's supposed to pick up the pieces? Way I figure it, that's me."

There was nothing Methos could say to that.

"Well, guess what, old man? I vote myself as being totally not worthy. So I thought I'd save you the trouble of disappointing you. I figured if I stayed dead long enough, you'd move on. Maybe by the time I woke up, you'd stop thinking I was some answer to your problems."

He snorted. "But no, you had to find me. Is that some sign you care?"

"What would you have me do, Richie?" Methos asked quietly, dangerously. "Pretend I don't care?"

"You do a good job of it," Richie lashed out. "Everything bores you. You've been there. Done that. Hawked the damn T-shirt, or toga, or whatever the hell it was. For all I know, you might have created the whole souvenir thing. If someone were to ask you if you did, you'd ask them if it matters and then you'd change the damn subject."

"Would you have me bore you with history instead? Just because I don't want to talk about something doesn't mean I don't have feelings about it."

"Oh, that's right, I'm supposed to just figure it out by myself," Richie said cynically, pacing away from Methos. His arms rose skyward to underscore his words as he continued, "You're just a guy. You don't have all the answers."

He turned, and gestured heatedly. "I'm tired of trying to figure this shit out by myself, who the hell I'm supposed to be, why all this crap happened to me. I can't handle it — being Immortal, the Game, Mac coming after my head three fucking times, your goddamned expectations. I want out, and it's not like anyone's going to miss poor Richie Ryan."

"Richie, you don't have a choice about being Immortal or the Game," Methos argued, his annoyance, fear, and concern combining to tear rips in the veneer of indifference he showed to the world. "You can't change the past, but you do have a choice in your future."

"I know that, damn it, that's why I choose to die."

Methos saw red. He'd invested too much, risked too much, cared too much for Richie. Moreover, he hadn't slept all night, too filled with worry to leave Richie alone. He was tired, and the emotions rolling through him had the force of tidal waves. The younger man's rejection of life hurt as deeply as any sword, as if Methos was personally responsible for that decision.

In a way, you are, the damnable voice in his voice whispered snidely. He blames you.

Well, if he's going to blame me for something, I might as well make sure it's worth his trouble.

"You want to just give up?" he demanded. "You just want to end your suffering?"

Richie didn't reply. He crossed his arms and stared at Methos, resentment in his eyes.

"Fine," Methos declared abruptly, coldly. His face grew dark, forbidding.

Richie flinched at the ice in his friend's voice, but he stood his ground. His eyes widened as he watched Methos pick up Richie's sword from the coffee table. Unconsciously, Richie retreated a step, not liking what he was seeing. Too late, he realized he'd backed into the stairs.

"You know, Richie," Methos continued thoughtfully, "if you really wanted out of the Game, you should have come to me."

Methos didn't raise the sword, but nonetheless closed the distance as Richie tried to scramble up the stairs. He grabbed the younger Immortal by a wildly failing arm and clamped hard to drag him back to the ground floor.

Richie fought against the hold instinctively, but Methos used a martial arts trick to immobilize him. He gasped against the sharp, piercing pain.

"You want your life to be over? I can arrange that."

Belatedly, Richie realized that Methos was livid. Somehow, the grimly furious expression on Methos's face made the emotion radiating from Methos ten times worse. Apprehension coiled its slick fingers around Richie's veins. His stomach clenched tight as he faced Methos.

The iron grip on Richie's arm prevented escape, so like a child whistling in the dark, he taunted, "So what are you going to do about it?" He lifted his chin and boldly met Methos's gaze.

A heartbeat later, he got his answer.

He stared at Methos in astonishment. He swallowed convulsively as his own blade pressed against his throat. His breathing quickened as adrenaline surged through his body.

This was just like when Mac tried to take his head that last time — no warning, no chance to defend. Richie froze, his mind flashing back in time. Panic rose like bile to well in his throat. His mind floundered. A pea soup fog of disbelief formed in his brain, even as instinct cried out that he should be doing something, anything.

"No," he croaked, hating the vivid recollection, hating the trapped position he was in.

"No?" Methos goaded sarcastically. "I thought you wanted to die?" His angular face held amusement.

Richie was going to vomit. He was going to humiliate himself in a minute. He'd never seen this side of Methos before, and the voice belonged to a cold, ruthless stranger. With a pulse-pounding certainty, Richie knew that Methos was going to take his head. Richie could feel the steel biting into his flesh, and he could feel his body surrendering to the inevitable. He felt hot tears form in his eyes and cursed his involuntary weakness.

"No," Richie sobbed. "Please, no."

"Oh, guess what? Mr. Nobody has a sudden change of heart. " He chuckled nastily. "Why, do you think someone will — gasp — miss you?" Methos said mockingly. He shoved Richie against the banister, still keeping the sword pressed against Richie's throat.

Richie's eyes were wide as Methos pressed his advantage. Richie didn't dare move, afraid that he'd accidentally slice himself on the blade he'd sharpened and honed. He had nowhere to go, trapped between the railing and Methos's lean, wiry body. Richie had a sudden image of being prey ensnared by a hungry panther, and he couldn't control the shiver that raced down his spine.

"You can't handle it anymore you said," Methos reminded him. "Isn't this what you wanted?" He smiled coldly. "I'll make it really easy for you, Richie. No more waking up. No more nightmares. No more expectations you can't fill. No one after your head anymore. All you have to do is lean forward a little and I'll let you go."

He's right, a sly voice in Richie's head whispered. You asked for this.

Richie was suddenly overwhelmed by the torment of his life. It'll be so easy, just like Methos said. Just a half step, if that, and it would be over.

He looked at Methos, who held the sword steady and stood before him with unflinching calm.

No more pressure.

"Come on, Richie, it's not hard," Methos said caustically. "Even an idiot like you can do it. I promise, it won't hurt at all."

No more pain.

"What are you waiting for? A priest for last rites?" Methos laughed unsympathetically. "Confession for your sins? I can do that too." His voice was an unholy mockery as he intoned, "Speak, my child, for He has forgiven you."

No more making mistakes that I'd have to apologize for.

Oh, what Methos offered was so tempting. One simple move and the confusion would be gone.

No need to find answers to questions I barely understand.

"Nothing to say? Well, I'm impressed. Everybody talks to priests."

No one would be looking for me ever again.

Conversationally, Methos remarked, "You know, my arm's getting tired, holding it like this. Why, I might slip."

Game Over.

The final thought flashed through Richie's mind like the words on a video game screen. It hung there, blinking like a cursor on the monitor of his mind. Waiting.

No second chances. No reboot button. No buying another life for a quarter, or even buying anything ever again.

His eyes slid over to the part of the sword he could see. The metal gleamed in the late morning light. Methos's hand held it steady, the skill of millennia showing in the confident way he gripped the hilt.

No need to carry a sword. No taking any more Quickenings, feeling the rush of another's power and knowledge on top of the savage, primitive exhilaration of being alive, when your enemy wasn't.

"I might even get bored waiting for you to step forward," Methos added. Conspiratorially, he leaned forward slightly and whispered, "We'll just consider it a favor between a student and his teacher."

Richie looked at Methos in growing horror, seeing his mentor of the last eight months in a new light. How much did anyone really know another person? he wondered. He thought he'd known Methos, but the jeering killer before him was someone he didn't know, though Richie had caught glimpses of him during sword practice. He thought he'd known himself, but, faced with sure death, he didn't recognize the slowly gathering strength of will he could feel rising through him. Who was more the stranger, the man before him or the man inside of him? Could he trust either one?

The realization unfolded within him like a peacock's feathers.

Methos could have killed him as soon as he'd picked up the sword.

He had not.

Richie had wanted to die. He'd died several times, but never permanently, though, as Methos was vividly pointing out, it would have been easy enough to arrange.

He had not.

Methos was always encouraging Richie to live. For him to offer to take Richie's head was, in Richie's opinion, out of character. That meant that either Methos was bluffing, or he was dead serious.

Richie locked eyes with his mentor, seeing nothing but the eyes of an ancient killer. The same eyes he had seen nearly nine months before, in another teacher, another friend. Another Immortal.

No more.

The cry tore out of Richie's soul like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July.

"NOOOOO!"

Hearing that, Methos released him as abruptly as he'd grabbed him. Richie stumbled back like a snapped rubber band. The wooden banister bit painfully into Richie's spine and his ankles connected with the edge of the bottom stair. He half-fell, stopping his downward tumble with an effort. He managed to get his footing and finally staggered to the kitchen side of the staircase, his chest heaving with the force of the combination of adrenaline, desperation, terror, and repulsion for Methos's action.

"You want to live, Richie." There was no trace of satisfaction in Methos's voice, only weariness, and relief.

For the briefest of moments, Richie wondered what would have happened had he not resisted. He shuddered as he realized just what would have occurred.

For a long moment, Richie held Methos's gaze. The ancient Immortal withstood the inspection silently, looking every year of his age. His normally impassive mask was gone; in its place was a tired old man who sometimes cared too much for his own liking.

Finally, Richie spoke. "I'm sorry, Methos. For, uh, everything."

Methos shook his head, brushing off the apology. "You made the choice, not me."

Richie wouldn't accept the dismissal, however. "I know, I know, it's just another lesson learned, no big deal, but — " Richie took a deep breath. "I owe you one."

"We're even." Methos waved off the debt. "Though I'd suggest next time you don't piss me off."

Richie chuckled sheepishly. "Yeah. It's right up there with 'avoid Mac when he starts seeing things that aren't there.'" He sobered. "You, uh, heard from Connor lately?"

Methos had, but he wasn't going to tell Richie that. Yet. Methos had just managed to fight off Richie's suicidal tendencies, and he didn't want to lose what precious ground he'd just achieved. "He's not going anywhere," he told Richie instead, and saw a shudder of relief escape the younger Immortal.

"About the drugs — " Richie hesitated.

"I know," Methos said quietly. "I've been there." He thought of Byron, and grieved silently for the friend he'd once known.

Richie absorbed the statement with an audible release of breath. Somehow, the knowledge wasn't surprising. "I know it was the wrong thing to do," he admitted. "I'm not very good at doing much other than screwing up."

"Richie, making mistakes is part of being human. No one's perfect. You've had a lot happen to you in a very short period of time. I can't think of anyone who wouldn't have problems coping." More gently, Methos added, "I can't say that I'm not disappointed that you didn't ask for help sooner." He paused. "Well, other than for studying for that one test."

"Yeah, well," Richie said flippantly, "that's one reflex I haven't yet mastered." He took a step forward. "May I have my sword back?"

Methos glanced at the rapier he still held, then to Richie. Carefully, he extended it, hilt first, towards its owner.

Richie took possession of the sword, noting that Methos was poised to react defensively if Richie chose to take revenge for the stunt Methos had pulled. A strange calmness filled Richie as he realized he harbored no ill will towards Methos for his actions. A part of him was still finding it difficult to believe that Methos had been willing to go that far, but Richie realized he probably would find it to be so for quite some time.

"Thanks for caring, old man," Richie said quietly, and watched Methos relax visibly.

"Don't let anybody tell you you're not worth anything," Methos told him, "least of all yourself."

Richie ducked his head, reluctantly acknowledging the insight. He turned to walk up the stairs, not wanting to show Methos just how much the comment affected him.

"I, uh, think I'm going to get some sleep," he announced. "I'll see you later."

"Sounds like a good idea," Methos agreed.  

Chapter Eleven
One and a half weeks later
8:30 PM

"Tell me again why I'm going to school," Richie pleaded as he walked in the door of the apartment. He set his backpack down on the kitchen table with an audible thunk and followed it, more gently, with his sword.

Methos looked up from the book he was reading in the living room. "Problems?"

Richie stripped off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. He crossed the open kitchen to grab a soft drink out of the refrigerator before walking back and collapsing into another chair.

"None that I can't handle — "

Methos went still. Not again, please.

Realizing what he'd said, Richie quickly continued, " — with some help."

Methos exhaled slowly and set aside the book. "Specifically?"

Richie pulled out a notebook from his backpack. "Well," he drawled sheepishly, "I kinda cut a lot of classes...."

Methos shook his head, correctly interpreting that Richie had been given make-up work to do. "How badly are you flunking?" he asked bluntly.

Richie winced. Briefly, he contemplated lying, covering the truth as he had gotten used to doing before he had infuriated Methos. He knew, however, that he'd never get away with it. Moreover, it would destroy the fragile peace that had arisen in the wake of that incident.

At last, he admitted, "If I don't get caught up in the next week, I might as well forget the rest of the semester."

Methos considered the news. "Do you want to drop out?"

Richie sighed. He'd thought of nothing else on the drive home. The idea was tempting, but he was determined not to fail through a lack of trying. "No," he informed his mentor. "I want to give this a shot."

He saw Methos nod his understanding, and felt relieved. "I thought maybe we could work on some of the stuff after dinner. What are you planning on cooking, anyway?"

"I'm not," Methos replied. "I was going to pick up Danielle and then head over to Joe's."

"Oh." Richie shrugged. "Guess I'll have to work on this myself."

"For now," Methos agreed, rising to his feet and walking across the living area to the back door. "Tomorrow?" he offered.

Richie didn't hide his disappointment. "Yeah, that'll work," he agreed reluctantly. He paused, watching his friend slip on his trench coat and his weapons.

"Danielle's pretty hung up on you, you know," Richie observed. "I stopped by Lagniappe for lunch and she kept asking me about you."

Methos didn't turn from his position at the door. "I know," he agreed quietly. He chuckled shortly. "I've always had a weakness for Cajun women."

With that, he walked out of the door, leaving Richie to shake his head at the statement his friend had made.

Resigned to spending an evening alone, he proceeded to order delivery of a pizza, and then tackled the assignments he'd neglected.

Joe's
11 PM

Danielle's voice drifted over the Wednesday evening crowd, dripping sadness as she sang a song about a lost love. Methos leaned back in his high-backed stool and let himself get lost in the simple beauty of the music.

He was sitting at the bar this way, occasionally taking sips of his beer, when he felt the rush of Presence.

He scanned the mass of humanity around him. Tonight, it seemed like half of Seacouver had decided to show up in Joe's, and he couldn't readily tell who was coming. It could be Richie, but then again, the city seemed to attract Immortals, particularly headhunters, like tribbles to grain. Silently, he debated the option of retreat.

He slipped on his coat and was halfway toward the door when his luck ran out.

A burly man in his late forties with neatly styled white hair, clad in a black wool dress coat, stopped his movement with a well-placed hand. "Going somewhere?" he asked with an amused smile.

"Actually," Methos answered, "as a matter of fact, yes, I was."

"Ain't no churches around for miles," the stranger declared, his speech a sharp counterpoint to his upscale attire. "I checked. You ain't gonna run out on a challenge, now are you?"

Methos feigned ignorance, wishing that he'd convinced Joe the worth of turning the bar into a shrine to Dionysus. "I wasn't aware you'd challenged me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get going."

"Outside," the stranger growled. "Now. You and me."

"Look, I don't know you and you don't know me, so why don't we leave it at that and consider it a night?" Methos tried one last time.

"I don't think so."

Resignedly, Methos went to meet his fate.  

1 a.m.
Methos's and Richie's apartment

The kitchen table was littered with the remnants of pizza and a collection of paper airplanes. Richie's head lay buried between the pages of a textbook, and he was snoring lightly.

Abruptly, the throb of Presence woke him. Disoriented, half-asleep, he was already instinctively reaching for his sword and standing up, prepared to defend, when he heard the distinctive click of a key turning the tumblers in a lock.

The back door swung open with violent force, and a bloodied figure staggered through.

"Richie," Methos said hoarsely, fighting to stand long enough to shut the door behind him.

Instantly, Richie set his rapier aside and went to help his friend get seated on the futon in the living room. He saw that Methos had a death grip on his own sword — or what was left of it. Someone had sliced off more than half of the Ivanhoe.

Richie's gaze met Methos's in stunned disbelief. "Tell me you got him," Richie demanded, horror in his voice. He remembered all too clearly his own experience with a shattered sword.

"Barely," Methos admitted shakily. "Gods, if I didn't have a backup — " he shuddered.

"Who was he?"

"We didn't exactly exchange names." Methos forced himself to breathe slowly. "But I'm pretty sure he was a headhunter."

"Not another one," Richie groused as, in an echo of what his teacher had done not so long ago, he fetched a glass of water.

Gratefully, Methos took the cool liquid, still feeling the effects of the Quickening and the vicious fight he'd nearly lost. He closed his eyes, exhausted on one level and exhilarated on another.

"Where?" Richie asked.

Methos told him, adding, "Danielle's probably wondering where the hell I took off to."

Richie glanced at his watch. "I'll call Joe and let him know," he decided. "You can tell Danielle whatever you want tomorrow."

The older Immortal nodded his gratitude and headed for bed. 

Chapter Twelve
Three weeks later
Methos's and Richie's apartment

The air rang with the clash of swords.

"You call that an attack?" Methos asked incredulously, just barely concealing that he was out of breath from Richie's assault.

Richie chuckled, breathing hard. He didn't answer otherwise; his eyes watched his opponent. He was enjoying the friendly sparring, and he knew he'd surprised Methos with the last maneuver.

Both men were sweating. Methos's T-shirt sported several bloody tears in the fabric, as did Richie's. Just looking at them, however, it was difficult to tell who was winning.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

"Expecting anyone?" Richie, who was closest to the front door, asked.

Methos shook his head. "You?"

"No."

Methos looked surprised. "Not even that pretty coed who was flirting with you all night at that fraternity party you dragged me to?"

"Dragged?" Richie chortled, clearly remembering the previous night. "You aren't fooling me. You had fun, old man," he said, pointing at Methos before turning to answer the door. "Besides, I thought she was flirting with you, not me."

Methos assumed an innocent look before he picked up an already soaked towel from the sideboard in the practice area. Methos hid a grin behind the towel even though Richie was in the process of looking through the peephole to see who their visitor was, and therefore couldn't see Methos's expression.

"It's Danielle," Richie announced, dismayed. He glanced at his attire, then Methos's. "Did you ever tell her about — ?"

"No," Methos swore. "It's why I stopped seeing her a few weeks ago."

"After that headhunter came through and challenged you at Joe's?" Richie asked.

Methos nodded.

"I don't suppose you told her good-bye?" Richie wondered, even as he stripped off his shirt. "Go on up and change, I'll hold her off." He paused, his hand on the door, as a thought struck him. "The swords!"

"Tell her I'll meet her at Lagniappe," Methos said. He surveyed the practice area, slick with the damning evidence of blood spilled. "You can't bring her inside."

"Methos, she's leaning on her crutches out there," Richie pointed out. "She doesn't have the arm strength to lean on them a long time." Through the door, he called loudly, "Be right there!"

Methos thought for a second. "Is she wearing a coat?"

"Yeah," Richie replied, his gaze going to the coat rack by the back door. "Look, I can hold her off for you. You don't have to do this."

"If I don't, she won't believe you."

Richie sighed resignedly. Moving quickly, he grabbed Methos's trench coat off the coat rack. He then walked towards Methos. "I'll get the practice area cleaned up," he told Methos as he delivered the garment to his friend.

Methos handed his sword temporarily to Richie while he slipped on the coat. He then set the sword in its sheath within the folds of the trench coat and headed outside.

"Hi Danielle," he greeted, shutting the door behind him.

"Hello Adam. It's been a long time; I haven't seen you at the bar." She smiled nervously. "Something wrong with watching me perform in a cast?"

"No, I just have been busy helping Richie with his schoolwork." He offered no further explanations.

"Oh." She looked at him, clearly undecided about something.

"What?"

"I guess this means that you don't want to sleep with me." She moved restlessly, obviously uncomfortable. "I thought that's all you wanted."

"You're accusing me of wanting just sex from you?" Methos asked in amazement. "Isn't that what you've been wanting from me?"

Danielle stopped short. "I was just trying to give you what you wanted," she said mournfully, casting her eyes downward. "I thought you liked me."

"I do, but sex isn't the only reason!"

She looked at him, stunned. "Then why were you interested in me?"

Frustrated, Methos sighed. "Because you're beautiful, talented, and an interesting person, that's why!" With an effort, he softened his tone. "You're a forever kind of woman, Danielle, and I can't give you that."

"Why not?"

Gods, I hate this part. "I'm not ready to settle down," he said honestly. "I care about you, but I can't be the person you want me to be. I can't love you." He paused. "Richie was right, you know. I'm not a good man for you."

"I don't understand. Why not?" Danielle asked, upset.

Methos hardened his heart, quietly mourning the decision he'd made. "Danielle, I don't want to see you anymore. Go home." He shut his eyes to the tears that were now rolling down her face and walked back into the apartment.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the door, sighing heavily.

Richie looked up from his mopping of the practice floor. He'd already changed into a pair of jeans and a different T-shirt. His hair was wet from the shower. "Never gets easier, does it?" he asked quietly.

"No," Methos admitted, opening his eyes. He moved to the back door and stripped off his coat to hang it on the coat rack. "But it's better for her this way."

Richie nodded in silent agreement and put away his mop. "I was headed for the mall," he informed Methos. "There's a new music store I want to check out. Want to join me?"

"As long as I'm driving," Methos agreed, grateful for the distraction Richie offered. "You're not getting me on that bike of yours again until at least summer. I nearly froze last night."

"Whine, bitch, moan, complain," Richie mocked, grinning.

"Don't you have any respect for your elders?" Methos shot back as he headed upstairs.

"Nope," Richie retorted. He waited until Methos had reached the second floor before adding, "Nothing to respect."

Methos stopped, half-turned, and then drew himself into a regal posture before walking into his bedroom, Richie's laughter ringing in his ears. He smiled to himself.

No matter what the winds of change might bring next, Richie was going to be all right. In time, Danielle would be as well, and the heart that Methos often refused to openly acknowledge he had would undoubtedly fall in love again.

In a sea of uncertainty, he knew he could trust that much.

"You're living with a silent stranger
He's living inside your mind
You're living on the edge of balance
Holding out for a reason
It's part of being human
Oooh it's all right
Some people never have the answer
Don't know the question
Down in your soul
Your secret's there to find
But you must search
Where spirits fly
Do you believe
The power of a touch
The answer will come when you can give — love

Child of the wind
I feel your warning
Child of the sea
I see your tears
Child of the rain
I hear your thunder
Child of the sky
I hear your cry"

— Gorky Park, "Child of the Wind"

— Finis —

Endnotes:

• Many prescription drugs are obtained under false or even legitimate prescriptions and then resold illegally. For the purposes of this story, I've assumed that was the case.

• Adverse reactions to speed include: nervousness, insomnia, irritability, talkativeness, dizziness, headache, hyperexcitability, tremors, hypertension or hypotension, tachycardia, palpitations, cardiac arrhythmia, blurred vision, mydriasis, nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, dry mouth, anorexia, metallic taste, impotence, libido changes.

• If you or someone you love is abusing drugs or is having a hard time coping with stress, please seek qualified help. There is no shame in exercising that "ask for help" reflex.

• Lagniappe - Pronounced <LAN-yap>. A little something extra, such as when the waiter at your favorite restaurant brings you an extra dessert or something, and doesn't charge you. Lagniappe breeds good will, friendship and most importantly, repeat business. Also, "Lagniappe" is the name of the entertainment pull-out section of the Friday edition of The New Orleans Times-Picayune. [Definition courtesy of the Gumbo Pages.]

• "Boo" and "Dawlin" are terms of endearment, universally used regardless of gender.

• In case you didn't know: the Borg and the tribbles (gods, what a combination) belong to the Star Trek people. The Borg assimilate other cultures and species with a complete disregard for whether or not that culture/species wanted to be a part of the Borg. [Usually, the answer is a resounding, "NO WAY!"]

• Tribbles are cute, round, brown, furry creatures who eat grain and reproduce faster than the proverbial bunnies.

• This story was originally posted January 1, 1999.